


Rematch

by cafeanna



Series: uvopika walks into a bar [2]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Nen, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Size Difference, Uvopika, two-night stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28890471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafeanna/pseuds/cafeanna
Summary: His immediate response has him setting his phone down, pinching the bridge of his nose.He would never live it down. Even if no one ever found out, he would know and it would haunt him. Just like Thursday at the bar. Letting some stranger who had tried to kiss him as the ball dropped lure him away—OR, Uvo can't be normal and texts Kurapika about wanting a rematch. [Complete]
Relationships: Kurapika/Uvogin | Ubogin
Series: uvopika walks into a bar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118696
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Rematch

**Author's Note:**

> *mr. cellophane starts playing* I can’t be quiet about anything, don’t look at me. Also, like, this turned out kinda sweet? I didn’t mean to?

The notification comes when Kurapika is deciding what he wants for dinner.

Its a text from a new number in his phone. A half-remembered occurrence after a mind-numbing incident. Last week’s New Years party, a gathering at the bar and the collision of drinks and bad decisions landing him once again in a situation he would never be able to vent about to his normal friends.

For his sake as well as theirs.

The text is simple.

No greetings or pleasantries, just business. 

**[Uvogin]:** I want a rematch

Kurapika stares at his phone.

His thumbs type out a quick, _What does that mean?_ before shooting it off. He watches the read receipt turn to check and a little bubble appears before he could set his phone down.

 **[Uvogin]:** like us

 **[Uvogin]:** last Thursday

 **[Uvogin]:** I want a rematch

Kurapika stares at the messages on his phone for an uncomfortable amount of minutes. The kind that might have tempted a lesser man into a fourth or fifth text, but the silence on the other end is resolute, waiting for the gauntlet to drop.

Kurapika draws himself up and sighs, thumb tapping against the screen before he works out, _That’s not how you ask Uvo oh my fuckin god,_ then deletes, and writes, _do you think I want,_ but deletes and tries again, _wow, so romantic._

He frowns at his screen, weighing the words and, annoyed, sends it.

Let Uvo figure it out.

He is about to set his phone down _again,_ but just as fast, he gets two texts. One right after the other.

 **[Uvogin]:**??

 **[Uvogin]:** what do you want me to bring over food or something??

And that’s—

That’s sort of tempting actually.

His immediate response has him setting his phone down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He is not going to exchange sex for food.

He would never live it down. Even if no one ever found out, he would know and it would haunt him. Just like Thursday at the bar. Letting some stranger who had tried to kiss him as the ball dropped lure him away—

Kurapika drags his palms against his cheeks, eyes flickering down.

His screen is lit up with a new text.

Uvo again. 

He thought he left this part of himself in college. In college dorms, at college parties. Kissing because he wanted to kiss, fucking who he wanted to fuck. A streak of brazen recklessness and misdemeanors broken by the burgeoning adulthood and now, this. 

He glances again at the empty pantry, eyes skimming over soup cans and mostly empty boxes of cereal.

When he opens the text, it’s a picture.

Uvo. Post-gym.

He’s standing before a wall of mirrors in the changing rooms, face tilted towards his phone, a grin pealing from the corner as his eyes angle down. His thumb is hooked in the front of his work-out shorts, pulling low to reveal the diamond-cut of a hip and the defined v of his Adonis belt. Muscles Kurapika has seen before, has _felt_ tightly against him, naked and coiled under his hands—

His phone vibrates with another text. A bubble appearing below the picture.

 **[Uvogin]:** you like burgers from menchi’s?

* * *

Kurapika only remembers the takeout boxes when Uvo is tossing him onto his own bed.

It’s a vague memory, lost between the front door and the bedroom, dropped sometime between onto the coffee table. His burger left steaming in the Styrofoam, forgotten when Uvo walked him backwards onto the couch, pulling off his sweats, mouth pressed against his navel.

It was obvious they would not be getting to the promised dinner part of the evening.

Something Kurapika is caring about less and less, not that he would tell Uvo as they continued this little song and dance. The brief awkwardness at the door, the bag swinging from Uvo’s fingers, and then, somehow, Uvo had him pinned against the wall, grinding against him as if he were trying to get him off before they could even undress.

He tips out of it a moment, sitting up on his elbows, to find Uvo shedding the rest of his clothes. He enjoys the flex of Uvo’s arms as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, his fingers slip back against his hair, gathering it up with the loose tie from his wrist.

Uvo catches his stare and grins. “Enjoying the show?” He asks, drawing down the fly of his pants.

Kurapika can feel heat burning his chest. Tongue sticking against the roof of his dry mouth.

“I’m kinda dealing with the vertigo of being manhandled onto my bed, actually.”

He cannot for the life of him explain what compels him to be so snappy with Uvo, but the answer is as simple as test and control. Uvo with his wide grins and loud laughter and wandering hands, pressing against every button that made Kurapika flush and writhe, and then stewing in Kurapika’s venom and languishing in insult.

His latest snip is met with lifted brows. Amused.

“You’re just lightheaded from the orgasm, sweetcheeks. Nothing to worry about.” He shoves his pants down and kicks them to the side, lost in Kurapika’s laundry piles. Uvo’s canines look a little pointed when he smiles like that, looking down on him in the bed, a loc falling across his shoulder. “However, if we’re citing grievances,” His hands touch Kurapika’s knees, running up the length of his legs. “I thought you were going to Black Widow my ass with your thighs for a second there.” His head tilts, thumbs brushing against his inner thighs with a tease. “No one ever eat you out that good, or—?”

Kurapika’s nose wrinkles. “Why do you have to say it like that—?”

“I just call it like I see it. Now, c’mere.” Uvo hooks his hands behind his knees and yanks him to the edge of the bed. Kurapika squawks, a noise that would have left him mortified if he had made it in front of anyone else, with anyone else, but when Uvo rolls him onto his belly, he forgets how to breathe.

It’s early evening by now. The winter sun straining through the window above the bed, long shadows stretching towards him as Uvo’s finger prods against him, newly slick and cool, slipping back in with little resistance.

Without the distraction of Uvo’s mouth on his clit, he feels hyperaware of the sensation. Laid out like this, naked and sweaty, and Uvo’s thick fingers working into him; gentle against the grip of his walls, building up that heat that burns low in his gut. All of his focus narrowing down on a finger, soon joined by another, aiding the stretch and the ease pulling down his back.

Experimentally, Kurapika lifts his hips, steady on the balls of his feet as he rocks back against Uvo’s hand, pushing him deeper, but the venture is short-lived when Uvo’s other hand comes to rest on his back, guiding down the bracket of his ribcage before settling on the base of his spine.

A low sound, like a purr, curls from Uvo’s throat. “Nah, sweetheart, I gotcha.”

Kurapika shifts to make a complaint, but his protests are soothed when Uvo curls his fingers, pulling against the wall of sensitive skin and putting a tremble in his thigh that has Kurapika bowing his head against the sheets.

Every drag of Uvo’s fingers earning him another shiver or sigh, sweat beading between his shoulders, peaked as a tremble rolls through him.

He can hear the sound Uvo makes. Not laughter, but a bark of pride, chilling against the heat on his spine. “And you didn’t want me to come over.” He says, voice pitching at the edge with a coo.

Kurapika curls his fingers into fists and hisses, “Keep talking and I might just throw you out.” But there is not real heat in his voice. It’s barely a threat, but Uvo heeds it all the same.

His fingers twist, dragging up as a third finger presses against him, catching against his rim before slipping in. Kurapika shudders against the sensation, _fuller,_ as his nails cut into his palms, dragging in a low breath through his nose.

He tries to keep his breath even in the blankets gathering against his palms, peeling them back against the edge of the mattress. Just as Uvo keeps the same rhythm as before, shallow thrusts of his wrist, just enough to open Kurapika up and keep him on edge, but not aiming to satisfy. 

Almost without thinking of it, he finds himself rocking his hips back, but Uvo’s other hand is still weighing him down, pinning him in place.

Kurapika pushes against the hand on his back, but his weight is resolute. Uvo notices, the same teasing meanness in his tone, “You’re acting all unaffected, but here you are trying to fuck yourself on my fingers.”

Frustration twists hard in his throat.

“Only because you’re not doing anything.”

Uvo hums again, something low and spiteful, and then after a moment that seems to suspend forever, he pulls his fingers nearly all the way out, teasing against his hole and no doubt enjoying the surprised noise that pries from Kurapika, before he withdrawals completely.

“Alright then.”

And although this is what he wanted; it seems—

Sudden.

When his hands fall away, Kurapika is made suddenly aware of it, dread knotting the terrible looseness of his stomach, and it drags him up onto his elbows once again.

He turns to glare at Uvo over his shoulder, something venomous and arched on his tongue. “Did I say, I was—?”

“Oh please,” Uvo rolls his eyes as he pushes his boxers down his thighs with the hook of his thumbs. “I know what I’m doing.” As he says this, his cock comes into view. The full size of which Kurapika has only felt on the edge of his tongue, loose-jawed and liquored up, sore throat an issue for the morning time.

Kurapika almost wants to challenge Uvo’s confidence on principle.

He watches him over his shoulder, tracking the movements as Uvo swoops down to collect his pants, digging through his pockets for a condom and the bottle of lube he had brought with him. Kurapika flushes again, still wondering if he should be upset that Uvo brought his own.

He watches Uvo roll the condom down, popping open the bottle again to coat his hand generously before rolling down his length with firm strokes. His brows lift again, a challenge if Kurapika has ever seen one.

“Do you trust me?”

The question flicks like a coin toss in his mind, heads over tails, tails over heads, but by the time it lands, Kurapika is surprised to think he already has his answer.

He does trust Uvo, weirdly enough.

Trust, and anticipation. Even now, he feels overwarm and tired and sore, the last few orgasms pulling him down with a ripple, but excitement crackles at the edge of that feeling; too eager to call it off and finish up in his bed alone. The stretch and press of Uvo’s fingers, soft when he wanted and deeper when he asked for it.

And he wants to know, wants to feel, because Uvo has been so attentive thus far and…thorough.

Kurapika swallows. “Yes.” Heat burns in his throat as he gathers his arms beneath him. Uvo approaches the bed, moving to stand between his legs, the sinking warmth of his palm on his shoulder, pushing him down until his face is buried in the blankets. The hand sweeps down his side, mapping the curve of his waist to move his hips higher.

Kurapika draws a breath. “Yes, I’m ready.”

He hears a muttered affirmation and then a shift, Uvo spreading him wide before Kurapika can feel his cockhead brushing against him, guided in to sink deep. His spine spasms at the sensation, the stretch just a touch too sharp to feel good, but muddled along that line. It’s an agonizingly slow progress, eased by Uvo’s coaxing hands and sounds, low in his throat, not words but noises, as Kurapika adjusts.

He focuses on Uvo’s hands, just like before. His thumb sliding against the mole on his right hip, then his palm gliding up his back, cuffing at his nape where his hair is still damp from the shower he took before Uvo arrived.

He can feel the shift of Uvo in increments, sinking deeper into him until he bottoms out. Skin bruising under his grip. 

Uvo’s hips stall a moment, thigh quivering against his, the warm flush of him pressing against Kurapika.

He takes a breath.

Then another.

“You good?” Uvo asks, breath catching as Kurapika shudders.

“Yeah, yeah-ah,” Kurapika hums and leans up, body aching as Uvo’s hand comes down beside him, shifting the angle as he leans down. “I’m good.” The movement is miniscule, a shift not a thrust, but has Uvo dragging against his rim and sliding deeper. His response comes out shuddered, “Y-you’re big.”

No sooner than he says it, he can feel the embarrassment burning in his chest.

He cannot see Uvo’s reaction, but he can hear it in the cut-up tremor of his laughter, and _feel_ it in the too cocky shift of his hips, side to side. The pulse of him deep inside an intimate reminder of his current position. His nails sink deeper into the blanket beneath him and Uvo’s palm steadies against his lower back.

“Never took you for a size queen, Kurta.” He mutters, under his breath.

Kurapika buries his face into his arms. “Shut _up_ —” His surprise cuts against him as Uvo leans back, as if assessing the sight below him, Kurapika laid out, sweat beading between his shoulders, and then rocks forward, a slow push that should not affect him as much as it does, but leaves Kurapika grinding against the edge of the bed.

Desperate for friction.

The noise that slivers from his teeth comes out at a whimper.

Uvo makes an appeased noise and rocks forward again, voice tangled on a high breath. “So, you’re still a little brat even when you’re taking dick.” He adjusts Kurapika’s hips, spreading his thighs further to accommodate, and Uvo presses into him, a full body lean that makes Kurapika whimper. “Good to know.”

“Disappointed?” He asks, catching his breath.

He can feel the tell-tale flex of Uvo’s fingers on his side, adjusting his grip.

“ _Excited_.”

Kurapika clenches his fingers into the blankets beneath him. Despite the obvious sadism, the hand on his back is soothing. Fingers splayed wide, catching against his slick skin and pushing up at the heel with just enough pressure to ease the muscles in his back locked with tension.

But it’s a heavy presence.

When Uvo rolls his hips again, Kurapika leans back, calves tightening, weight strung up on his toes, trying to push back, but Uvo is having none of it and shifts his weight onto that hand to hold Kurapika firm; pinning him like a butterfly. As if he might fly away if Uvo let him free.

As if he wanted to.

Uvo leans back this time, keeping that pressure, the drag of his cock against his rim enough to chase a tremble up Kurapika’s spine before he is sinking forward again.

“Look at you. Blushing all pretty for me.” Kurapika fights for words to say, but they all come back numb on his tongue. Uvo only pulls back the slightest bit, movements all teasing and slow, easing the trail of what is to come. What he _wants._

It seems unlike Uvo.

Granted, Kurapika does not know him well. On a personality standpoint.

The bar at New Years had been fist in his hair and slurring praise, shoved up against the bathroom wall, fingers gripping for purchase as Uvo’s tongue sank deeper than he felt humanly _possible—_

He feels a little loathe to admit that he wants that feeling— _that_ exactly. That drunken carelessness, press and pull and curl because it feels good, leave a bruise or two for later. And here he is, attempting to lead Uvo into it. 

He wants that roughness.

Wants it. Wants him.

Wants him to _move._

His toes are going numb and cold against the hardwood, but he can’t get himself to care. Maybe if he collapses Uvo might do something other than tease him.

Uvo’s hand slides along his shoulder, rough-worked hands against the wing of his scapula before hooking against his collarbone, pulling back. Kurapika’s arched feet strain against the pull, keeping his hips lifted.

He can feel Uvo’s cock shift inside before he hears the bed whine underweight, springs crying out in tune, and then Uvo’s knee, folded, rests beside his hip. The angle is awkward for all of a moment before Uvo is leaning into him, sinking somehow deeper than Kurapika thought possible.

He moans brokenly against the bedsheets, teeth catching on the edge, much to Uvo’s chagrin. “No sense being quiet here, sweetcheeks. No one’s lining up outside the doors like they’re waiting their turn.”

Kurapika moans again, and chalks it up to the dirty roll of Uvo’s hips.

His voice is grating when he speaks, scraping against his throat. “I’ve got neighbors.”

A warm laugh vibrates through him.

“And what?” Uvo is over him, hot breath fanning against the knob of his spine. “You don’t want to give them a little show?”

Uvo pulls his hips back again, just a little more, and the spark against his spine sinks deeper. Arms coiling beneath him to push his body _up,_ and _back._ Uvo is right over him, but still too far away.

He gasps, “Fuckin’ exhibitionist.”

That rumbling laugh.

“Yeah, well,” Uvo’s finger slides against his throat, enticing like glass on his tongue, danger in implication, the promise. Those lips graze his ear. “So are you.” And Kurapika can feel himself get wetter, pins and needles of breath tickling his spine, then Uvo drags his hips back, a shift of bed creaks and sweaty heat; the loss is immediate, _empty,_ and Kurapika can feel a simpering _whine_ working in the back of his throat before Uvo snaps his hips forward and splits him in two.

The sensation travels up his tailbone, branching along his ribs before curling at his neck and shoulders, where his tension is, where he is the _tightest,_ and then he feels himself go loose.

His mouth opens, a guttural sound spilling from his throat and then an inhale, a soft humming sob.

He can feel the dig of Uvo’s palm against his side, cradling his hipbone.

“—so fuckin’ perfect.” Uvo’s voice is rough, winded even though they have barely started. Kurapika knows he should feel proud, maybe even snip something nasty back, but he can’t get his tongue to form words as Uvo ruts against him, his forehead coming to rest against the back of his neck, lips grazing with teeth. “Tell me what you want.”

It’s not an order.

It rolls off of Uvo’s tongue like honey, sweet like the sparks on his spine, a request like Kurapika’s mumbled pleas between kisses, burning neon bright. A request that had it been anyone else, Kurapika might have been inclined to goad; pull at those demanding strings and crooked knobs, make a nuisance of himself in order to be thumbed down.

But, with another shallow thrust, all of Kurapika’s fight is whittling down to a whimper.

A dry-mouthed whisper. “You know. . .”

Uvo moans, grinding against him, sweat and slick gathering on their skin aiding the slide.

Satisfying, but not quite.

He hates his resolve weakening as his jaw clenches.

Uvo’s mouth slides against his throat, pressing down hard against the marks blooming under his skin. “You don’t have to put anything on for me.” His voice is gentle when he speaks, nothing teasing or grating, but seeping into him like sugar, dissolving into that fever-heat. “I just want to make you lose your mind.”

And it snaps the resolve in him like twigs underfoot.

The straining threads of his control popping against the seams. It would feel good to lose control. Ease into hands he can trust to carry him through the brunt of it.

And he does trust Uvo, doesn’t he?

Drawing himself up to speak, he catches his breath. “I, I want—”

His voice is watery at the edge. 

“Hm?” Uvo goads, fingers kneading against his shoulder. Almost mean.

Kurapika growls and with trembling fingers, reaches back, hand cuffing against the curve of Uvo’s shoulder where his neck turns to slope. He bites his nails in, delighting in the surprised little grunt Uvo makes when Kurapika pulls his body into a bow. The jolt of Uvo’s own body a triumph.

His voice is a croak.

“I want _you_ to fuck me _,_ you fu-fuckin’ asshole, now— _fuckin’_ Jesus Christ—” His breath catches in his throat when Uvo pulls out and snaps his hips forward. He chokes a moment, wet breath, dry tongue, his abdomen tightening against the drag, and Uvo pulls out again. Almost entirely.

Lips at his ear. “If you wanted it rough, you could’ve said something.”

At any other time, he might have had a hundred things to say to that. At any length, with any composure, but not when he is being bent backwards by his two-night stand on a power trip.

Uvo doesn’t give him a chance to answer regardless. 

**Author's Note:**

> Where will she stop? Nobody knows.
> 
> I really have no idea how this ship possessed me, but I saw the musing on my timeline and it just clicked. I really need to finish my other fic for them, I’ve been bitching about if for too long (I’ll get there, I swear). Regardless, I will be working on some KuroKura and ChroLeo pieces soon, so maybe I’ll have those up and ready to go eventually. 
> 
> Update: My proofreader has threatened to steal my milk frother if I don’t write more Uvopika, which is a feat because she doesn’t even go here. I’m thinking a continuation of this with established relationship sex and lingerie, thoughts?
> 
> -cafeanna


End file.
